


The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God

by Drogna



Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Rip Week 2018, RipFic, Time Master Rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drogna/pseuds/Drogna
Summary: Rip finds himself in possession of a cursed item, the Eye, and with his life in danger. Rip seeks out John Constantine to help him deal with the curse and prevent it from killing him. Unfortunately other interested parties are also looking for the Eye, and the Time Master and the warlock must work together to stay alive and prevent the Eye from falling into the wrong hands.Set before the events of the series.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ams75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ams75/gifts).



> Finished for Rip Week 2018 for Day Five: Rip and his Past, but this started out as a birthday fic for AMS75.

 

“There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu,  
There's a little marble cross below the town;  
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,  
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.”

The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God, Milton J. Hayes

-

The bar was bustling but not crowded, and Rip spotted the man he was looking for quite easily. He was sat at the bar itself, unlit cigarette in one hand, pint of beer in the other. He had dirty blond hair and a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin. He wore a crumpled shirt, with a tie around his neck that was half undone. A tan trench coat lay on the bar stool beside him, making it quite clear that this man was drinking alone and didn’t want company.

Rip strode across the room and sidled up to him.

“Mr Constantine, I need your help.”

The man turned to look at Rip, eyeing him up from his boots to the top of his head.

“You know, it never ends well for me when someone says that,” he took a long drink of his beer, finishing it and thumping the glass down on the bar. “Well, apparently you know _my_ name, so who the bloody hell would you be?”

Rip hated this part. He knew this man. He’d fought demons beside him, but of course John didn’t know _him_ yet, because this was their first meeting from his point of view. Occasionally being a time traveller could have some rather annoying consequences, and meeting one’s acquaintances out of order was something of an occupational hazard.

“I’m Rip Hunter,” he said, offering the man a hand to shake.

John ignored it, and turned back to the bar, ordering another pint. The cigarette was still unlit in his fingers, and occasionally he rolled it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Rip had seen the “no smoking” signs around the bar, so it would remain unlit for now.

“What’s a “Rip Hunter” when it’s at home?”

Rip resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s my name. I’m a Time Master and I require your expertise. Believe it or not, I’ve actually already worked with you… just in your future. Time travel can rather complicate things.”

John just looked at him for a long moment. “What are you on, mate? Because I want some of whatever you’re smoking.”

“I am not “on” anything,” Rip replied, indignantly. “You could have warned me that our first meeting would be this difficult. Wait, forget I said that, paradox prevention.”

John was still looking at him, and this time as if he was totally out of his mind.

“Look, I know who you are. You’re a warlock, quite an accomplished one, and I need someone with your particular area of expertise. You see, I’ve acquired the Eye of the Little Yellow God, and now I need to know how to safely dispose of it.”

That got John’s attention. He swung back around towards him with a dark look on his face. “You’ve done what?! Do you have any idea…”

Rip cut him off. “Yes, thank you, I had worked out that it’s cursed and that I have twenty-four hours before I die of some horribly contrived occurrence.”

John let out a groan. “All I wanted was a quiet pint…” He glanced upwards. “Really? This is what you send me.” Rip didn’t think he was talking to him.

Rip looked at the man, and gave him the most pleading look that he could manage. “I could really use your help.”

“If you’ve got the Eye then I don’t think I want to be anywhere near you,” said John. “I’d guess you’re a walking disaster right now.”

“Erm, yes,” said Rip, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking downwards.

On his way to this drinking establishment, he’d narrowly avoided an air conditioning unit landing on his head and being run over by the number 63 bus.

“I think it’s stepping up its game as well,” he admitted.

The final straw had been when an armed robbery had spilled into the street and he’d been caught up in it. He’d somehow managed to avoid all the bullets that had flown in his direction, but it hadn’t been fun.

John shoved his cigarette in his mouth, grabbed the coat from beside him and threw it on crossly, every movement of his body suggesting that he was not pleased, and this was not something that he wanted to be doing.

“Get the tab, mate,” he said, as he brushed past Rip, the cigarette muffling the edges of his words. “If I’m going to solve your curse problem then I think it’s the least you can do.”

Rip gave him a rather annoyed look of his own, but he literally had a machine that could print money, so he supposed he could take care of John’s bar tab. He pulled out some of the paper bills that this era used and handed them to the bartender. He turned to go and found that John appeared to have vanished.

“Bollocks,” he muttered.

Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. He let out a long sigh. John Constantine would be the death of him, perhaps literally right now. On their last encounter Rip had nearly had his soul sucked out by a Leech Demon, been scratched half to death by an annoyed cat and then almost burned to death in a warehouse fire. But John didn’t know any of that, because he hadn’t lived it yet.

He stomped out of the bar, almost tripping over a bag that someone had left in the way, but stopping himself just in time to avoid the broken stem of the wineglass that sat on the table he’d been about to crash into. This curse was getting ridiculous. He recovered himself and decided that his best course of action would be to leave and see if there was anyone else in the area who could potentially defuse the curse. Apparently, John wasn’t going to help him after all, which did seem a little strange given some of the things that John had said to him when they’d tackled the Leech Demon together.

He stepped out through the doors and into the night air. There was the distinct odour of cigarette smoke in the air, and the sound of car engines rumbling past. Suddenly, he felt someone collide with him and push him sideways. He was about to protest, but there was the sound of crashing, a roaring engine and twisting metal, followed by glass breaking and people screaming. John Constantine had just propelled him out of the way of a speeding motorcycle that had somehow managed to mount the curb and crashed into the bar that he’d just been in.

John and Rip both lay on the ground in a crush of intertwined arms and legs.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Rip, as he tried to extract himself. He felt bruised, but he didn’t seem to have broken anything. He used both arms to push himself up to a sitting position, and then he was able to look around and take in the damage.

John removed himself from the tangle, and Rip saw him wince, but he staggered to his feet and over to the wrecked window.

“Shit,” was his exclamation, spoken at low volume but with considerable feeling.

Rip got to his feet too and came to stand beside John. He could still hear moans coming from within, but the motorcyclist was the one that concerned him most. The man had hit the front of the bar and gone straight through the window. He’d crashed into a table and then into a couple of the bar patrons. There was blood, and someone was calling for an ambulance. At least everyone was breathing and hopefully their injuries weren’t beyond repair.

“Dear god,” said Rip, quietly.

“Right then, mate,” said John, throwing away his broken cigarette that had still somehow been hanging from his lips. “We’d best lift that curse before you do anymore damage.”

Rip nodded, rather worriedly. He hadn’t realised that he could actually hurt other people at the moment.

“And exactly how do we do that?” he asked.

“Good question,” replied John. “I’m sure I’ll work it out.” He pulled out a pouch of some kind of green herb and a lighter.

Rip sighed. “I don’t think now is the time for recreational drug use.”

John gave him a smirk. “I wish that’s what this was.” He shook his head. “No, this is a stopgap measure until I can get you somewhere a bit safer for everyone.”

John grabbed one of the ashtrays that sat on the outdoors tables for use by the smokers. He upended it onto the ground, tapping out the ash, and then dumped about half the contents of the pouch into the ashtray. He held it at about the height of Rip’s chest and flicked open his lighter. With a practised movement of his thumb, he sparked the lighter and lit the dried herbs. He pocketed the lighter and then wafted the resulting smoke towards Rip. It made him cough and his eyes sting.

John intoned something in a language that Rip didn’t recognise as he wafted more of the smoke at Rip. When he’d seemingly finished, he extinguished the flames with a word and sprinkled the ashes on Rip’s boots.

“Do you mind? What on earth are you doing?”

“Protection spell against curses,” said John, matter-of-factly. “It won’t break the curse, the Eye’s too strong for this to work, but it will dilute it and buy us some time.”

Rip coughed again. He really hated dealing with magic. It was always messy and never seemed to follow any kind of logic. John was pulling out a mobile phone that looked as if it was several years too old for this era. Rip would certainly not have considered bringing anything so outdated on a mission to this year. However, John pressed buttons and put the phone to his ear.

“Chas… yes, mate, I could do with you bringing the cab around,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Rip. “Yeah, I’ve bumped into someone that could use our help… No, it’s not a bird… no, he is not one of my conquests… Come on, Chas, I just wanted a quiet drink. Is it my fault if fate has other plans?”

He turned slightly away from Rip. “I don’t need the third degree. Just come get us… Yeah, the usual place.”

He pressed the button on the phone that would disconnect the call and turned back to Rip. “You just can’t get the staff these days.”

“I suppose it would be too much to expect some kind of explanation of what you have planned,” said Rip, tersely.

“My mate Chas is coming to collect us and we should be able to get you back to the Mill House before that protection spell that I just cast on you wears off. Then we’ll work out how we remove that curse. I’ve got a few ideas, so I’m sure we’ll work it out,” said John.

Rip noticed movement across the road. There was a group of people coming towards them that looked somewhat out of place. Two men and two women, dressed in clothes which looked like they were on their way to a fancy dress party with some kind of science fiction theme. They stuck out somewhat, and Rip suspected that they hadn’t done their research properly.

“I feel I should mention that there is another small problem. I was being pursued by another interested party…”

John followed Rip’s gaze, also taking in the people across the road. “Great. Who would they be?”

“Dangerous. Artefact hunters who work for the highest bidder,” said Rip, seriously. They hadn’t seemed at all interested when he’d pointed out that the relic that they were hunting was cursed.

“Fan-fucking-tastic, just what my day needed,” said John. “So, we should run?”

Rip took out his revolver and checked the charge, just as one of his pursuers made an almost suicidal attempt to cross the road. Luckily the street was busy at this time of day and there was no way for her to cross safely. Realising that she was taking her life in her own hands, the woman pulled out her own laser pistol and fired at them across the traffic.

 “Yes, we should run,” said Rip, returning fire, whilst he and John ducked behind a parked car. Cars swerved to avoid the gun shots, and the traffic ground to a halt, but no one would come closer whist there was the risk of being hit by one of Rip’s laser blasts.

“Yeah, and how are we supposed to do that now your friends are firing at us?” asked John, understandably cross.

“Aren’t you armed?” asked Rip, waiting for John to take out some kind of weapon and maybe fire back too.

“Only with my wits, mate,” said John. “I’m not a fan of guns.”

However, as Rip watched, John closed his eyes and began to mutter something under his breath. He seemed to be concentrating. Then he reached out a hand to touch Rip and he twisted around to face the approaching enemies, his eyelids snapping open. Rip would have sworn that he saw John’s eyes glow with a green light briefly, but it was just a flash and then gone. He raised his hand, palm out, still muttering. On the other side of the road, their pursuers either tripped over their own feet, narrowly avoided catastrophic accidents with cars and one of them collided with a man on a bicycle.

John smirked. “That’s some juice you’ve got there.”

“What did you just do?” asked Rip, with a suspicion in his voice.

“I borrowed some of your curse energy, drained it off, if you like, and directed it at them. That should buy us a bit more time before my stopgap wears off too,” said John, in a very matter of fact tone.

“And what about the people who had the misfortune to get caught up in it?” asked Rip.

“Price of doing business, mate,” said John, without even a pause.

Rip opened his mouth to tell John how wrong that philosophy was, but was interrupted by the arrival of a yellow taxi cab. It honked its horn.

“That would be our ride,” said John, and grabbed Rip by an arm and dragged him towards it. Rip had given up trying to determine what was going on at any given moment, and allowed John to bundle him into the back seat of the cab.

“Home, Chas, and don’t spare the horses. This one’s got a curse riding him and I’ve only managed a temporary measure to stop it from killing him and probably us,” said John.

Chas, which was apparently the name of the driver, had a shaggy beard, brown, unkept hair, and a long suffering look on his face which suggested this wasn’t the first time that he’d been called out to deal with a supernatural emergency.

“Hi there, I’m Chas Chandler. Don’t mind him. No one ever taught him proper manners,” said Chas.

John rolled his eyes at that.

“Er, Rip Hunter,” he said. “Might I ask where we’re going?”

“A supernatural safehouse called the Mill House,” said John, leaning his head on the back of the seat. “We’re going to need it. You don’t screw around with the kind of cursed object that you’re carrying. We need to find somewhere that we can nullify that thing until we can lift the curse.”

“Right,” said Rip, he could hear the slight nervous edge to his voice.

He wasn’t entirely convinced that he should have come to John with this, but the man _was_ an expert in the dark arts, and the nearest one to where Rip had picked up the artefact. He certainly couldn’t have risked taking the Eye onto the Waverider. Only disaster lay that way.

“How did you come to pick up something like the Sānō Pīlā Bhagavānakō Ām̐khā?” asked John, eyeing him up from top to bottom. He seemed to be assessing his worth.

“The what?”

“That’s what its name is in Nepali, which is where it’s from,” said John. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

“I just don’t happen to speak Nepali,” shot back Rip, crossly. “And I didn’t really expect to be dealing with an ancient, cursed object today, so perhaps you could let me have a moment or two to get my bearings. I am not totally without knowledge of the supernatural but I certainly don’t regard myself as an expert. I am no “master of the dark arts”.”

“I prefer “petty dabbler”,” replied John, looking away for a second. Rip wondered if he caught just a moment of the warlock’s armour breaking to reveal the human beneath. It was fleeting, if it had been there at all, and the smirk was back firmly.

“That isn’t what it says on your business card,” said Rip.

“I’m getting new ones printed,” John said, and it sounded very much like an automatic reaction. “And how would you know what it says on my business card? I didn’t give you one.”

“Actually, you did, or at least you will,” said Rip, and he fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a dogeared piece of card. He had kept it for a little while now, and the condition reflected that. He handed it to John. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I have _already_ met you. It’s just that it was in my personal past, but for you, it’s the future.”

John took the card and looked down at it, and then he pulled out his wallet and took out a fresh card, still crisp around the edges. He compared the two.

“Read the back,” said Rip. “You were kind enough to write me a small note.”

John turned the card over where there was a very rapid scribble.

_Rip is an arsehole. Help him._

John huffed out a surprised breath. “Well, it looks like my writing, and I got the arsehole bit right. It could be a faked though.”

“Which is why you added, will add, a verification spell to it.”

“Did I now?” He looked down at the card. “Veritas vidi,” he said, and the words glowed for several second. That would only happen if they had been created by the spell caster, it was a very simple check of authenticity.

“I assume that is enough for you to trust me?” asked Rip.

“For now,” said John, handing the card back to Rip. “You didn’t answer my question. How did you come to possess the Eye?”

“I was attempting to track down a rogue time traveller. She had been eluding me for some time,” he shrugged. “However, recently, wherever she went, she left a trail of destruction behind her. I had to spend a considerable amount of time repairing the damage that she had caused, but I did eventually catch up with her. At which point I discovered what the issue was. Unfortunately, I was unable to prevent her death, and I’m still unsure why she picked this time to come to. I searched her body, and my hand brushed against the Eye, transferring the curse to me before I’d even realised what the thing was.” Rip shook his head, disappointed at being caught out by a mere piece of jewellery.

He continued. “I thought it was just an emerald pendant at first, but then I realised that I had become unusually unlucky. Being aware that such things as cursed items existed, I sent Gideon the details of what I had found, and she was able to identify it. She also gave me some of the details of its rather sordid history and informed me that every single owner of the Eye had died in unfortunate circumstances.”

“Gideon?”

“Er, my partner. She’s on my ship,” said Rip, which was not a lie, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

John nodded. “She got that right. It’s notorious in the occult world. No right thinking magical practitioner would ever want to possess it. Which makes me wonder why those people were chasing you. Either they’re sadly ill informed or they’ve got a death wish…” John paused, ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the ceiling of the cab. “Or they know how to defuse the curse, of course.”

“Does one of you want to tell me what the hell is going on?” asked Chas, his eyes firmly on the road still. “Or am I just the wheel man?”

“Rip’s a time traveller, Chas,” said John. “Welcome to a whole new world of weird.”

“Great, because I needed more weird in my life,” said Chas, resignation evident in his voice, but he didn’t seem to have any trouble believing what John had just said. Rip supposed that being friends with John Constantine would do that to a person.

Chas pulled up at a red light, and glanced back at his passengers.

“You’re not exactly what I expected a time traveller to look like,” said Chas.

“Sorry to disappoint,” said Rip. “Generally, we try to blend in.”

“There are more of you?” asked John.

“I’m a member of an organisation called the Time Masters, we guard the timeline and protect it from malicious interference,” replied Rip. “I have a timeship, called the Waverider that I use to navigate the river of time.”

“Right you are, mate,” said John, obviously just letting his explanation wash over him.

“We can’t allow the Eye to continue to curse any unfortunate who happens to come across it. We either need to nullify its power or destroy it,” said Rip.

The lights turned green and Chas drove off again, only to be stopped by the next set of red lights.

“The thing about curses,” said John, “is that normally certain conditions have to be fulfilled for them to activate, or you pissed off the wrong person. In this case, it’s an object that’s cursed so I’d say this is the former, and the story goes that some poor sod named Mad Carew stole the emerald from a statue of the Little Yellow God from a Nepali village. Being brought up to be a good Christian lad like he was, he didn’t consider that maybe he shouldn’t go around plundering religious statues belonging to other gods. I don’t think they were big on teaching religious tolerance in the 1910s.”

Chas sighed as one set of lights turned green, only for the next set to be red again. They had left the city behind now and were heading out into the quiet suburbs. There were hardly any other cars around them, and even the houses were becoming sparser.

“So, he was cursed because he stole the emerald eye?” asked Rip.

“Yes, and the legend goes that he was injured in the heist, probably by the monks who protected the statue. It was made of gold, hence the name, and had a single green emerald eye in its forehead that was removed and kept separately, except on ceremonial occasions. Carew wanted it for his girl, the colonel’s daughter, because she’d asked for it as a birthday present, but apparently she was only joking and told him to put it back. He never got the chance because he was murdered that night. The Colonel’s daughter, her name was Maggie Halliwell, she took possession of the gem. It took a few months to kill her with Scarlet Fever, and they buried it with her. Then her grave was robbed, and some poor soul in India tried to fence the thing. He died a bit quicker, after he choked on his dinner. It’s sort of a feature that it kills more quickly every time. It passed through a few unfortunate hands, but no one knows what happened to it after it left India. So, at least that’s one mystery solved.”

“I am delighted that I can satisfy your curiosity, but none of that explains how we deal with it,” said Rip.

“You’re assuming that there is a way to deal with it,” said John. “Not all curses are meant to be broken.”

“But you said…” began Rip.

“I know what I said! But this is a powerful one. My best guess is that we need to return the damn thing to Nepal but I don’t think you’ll make it that far before this thing kills you. Which is assuming we can find out where it came from in the first place. The song just says “north of Kathmandu” and that doesn’t narrow it down much,” said John, crossly.

“And I’m wondering who murdered poor old Mad Carew,” said Rip.

“Yeah, that’s definitely a question worth asking, but this curse seems to work in coincidences, so it may not even be relevant,” said John.

“Damn it!” said Chas, as he was stopped by yet another red light.

John opened his mouth to say something else to Rip, but suddenly all his attention was on Chas.

“Have we had a single green light since we started driving?” asked John, looking up at the traffic signals.

“Sure, when we started, but this is like five in a row,” replied Chas.

“Bloody hell!” said John. “I told you this thing was strong!” He eyed up Rip again. “That curse is breaking through the protection magic that I put on you. We have less time than I thought. Red traffic lights are one thing, but it won’t be long before we’re back to the more serious stuff, like motorbikes through windows and people trying to kill us.”

Rip leaned back in his seat again, and let out a frustrated breath. “How long do I have?”

“I bought you a few hours, hopefully enough time to still get you to the safehouse where I’ve got a few stronger magical items at my disposal,” said John, but something in his body language suggested that he was unsure at best and lying at worst.

“I won’t put you and Chas in danger,” said Rip, slowly sitting up more rigidly. “If you can’t lift the curse, then I’ll find somewhere out of the way where I can meet my fate without hurting anyone else.”

“That’s not happening,” said John. “You came to me for help, and one way or another that curse needs to be dealt with.”

“I suppose that’s reassuring on some level,” said Rip, but he was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea. Maybe he should have dealt with it himself and never even got John involved.

He was just wondering how on earth he could prevent further bloodshed when the traffic light turned green, but suddenly a large black SUV had pulled to a stop on the crossroads, blocking their path. Chas pushed down on the horn. Instead of moving, the doors opened and several people with guns got out.

“Bollocks!” said John and Rip together, with a dark look rapidly passing between them at the coincidence of their swearword of choice.

“Get us out of here!” John said to Chas.

“I’m trying!” spat Chas and he attempted to reverse, only to find that another car was now parking up behind them. The cab ground to a halt.

“Friends of yours?” asked John.

“Definitely not,” said Rip, taking out his revolver for the second time. The artefact hunters were back.

“Didn’t we just deal with this bunch?” asked John, apparently recognising them from the group who had shot at them before.

“They’re persistent, I’ll give them that,” said Rip.

“Well, I’m always up for a good scrap,” said John, and he threw open the cab’s door. “Oi, lads!” and then he noticed that there was at least one woman with them and added “…and lasses.” He leaned his head back into the cab briefly. “And time you want to join me, your presence would be appreciated, mate.”

Rip opened his own door and got out, levelling his gun at their pursuers. He was poised to drop back into the cab use it as cover. So far, their attackers weren’t moving towards them and no one had opened fire.

“All we want is the Eye,” said the leader of the group.

He was unusually tall, had blond hair that was almost white, and strange eyes that seemed to change colour in the light. Rip was aware that meant he had technology embedded in his irises, and no doubt had particularly acute eyesight.

“No can do, mate. That there is a dangerous chunk of bad luck that you don’t want anywhere near you. We’ll take it somewhere safe, so you don’t need to worry your pretty little head over it,” said John, shoving a new cigarette in his mouth, and sparking it up with a silver zippo.

“If you don’t give it to us, then we will take it,” replied the man.

“And who would you be? Just so that I know I’m putting it into capable hands,” said John, nonchalantly.

Rip shot John a look. Surely he didn’t really intend to just hand over the Eye. He’d had recent and first hand experience of just how dangerous this artefact could be.

“My name is Gryphon,” said the man. “I represent a group of warlocks who have been searching for this particular object for many years. You do not want to anger them. It would be more than your life is worth.” He was looking at this with distinct dislike and a good measure of disdain.

“Yeah, well, my life isn’t worth much to be honest, so you’re probably right there. You’re not getting the gem though,” said John.

“I fail to see why you would want a cursed item,” said Rip, his revolved firmly directed at Gryphon. “I can assure you that it’s very tiresome being quite as accident prone as I appear to have become.”

“We will deal with the curse,” said Gryphon.

“That’s interesting, because I’d really like to know how you plan to do that,” said John.

“Hand it over and we’ll demonstrate,” replied Gryphon, his face set in a permanent scowl.

“No,” said Rip. “If you can lift the curse, do it now, and then I’ll consider giving you the Eye.”

Gryphon turned to his assembled group. “Kill them, take the stone.”

There was the sound of guns being drawn and cocked.

“Sod this for a game of soldiers,” said John. “Invoco ignis!”

Suddenly John’s hands were both in flame, and a moment later, the flames had been balled up with a quick motion of John’s hands and there were two fireballs sailing through the air towards their attackers. Gryphon and his group scattered, some of their number had been caught by the flames and were busily putting out fires on their clothes.

Rip ducked back into the taxicab and opened fire with his revolver, hitting a couple of the group, who went down, probably never to get up again. Laser blasts hit the cab as Gryphon’s men finally began to shoot back. A couple of the shots were too close for comfort and John was still stood outside, mumbling some kind of spell under his breath and drawing weird glowing shapes in the air.

“Get down you idiot!” shouted Rip. Chas had wisely taken cover in the front seat.

Rip shuffled over to the other side of the cab and began firing to give John some much needed cover. He hit some more of their attackers and managed to keep John safe for a few moments longer. Then John was reaching out a hand to grab hold of Rip, and his eyes were glowing green again. The car in front of them was suddenly sliding away towards Gryphon and his henchmen, and once again their assailants scattered rather than be mown down by the floating vehicle.

Rip saw the moment that John lost control and his knees bent. He was just quick enough to grab him and pull him into the back seat of the cab before he could collapse to the ground. The warlock had gone pale and seemed to be in pain.

“Chas…” mumbled John.

“You stupid bastard,” said Chas, glancing back at his friend. There was something in his tone of voice that Rip would probably have placed as concerned anger.

Rip pulled shut the doors. “Get us out of here!”

Chas was already putting the cab in gear, and gunning the engine. A few more shots hit the back of the cab and then Rip could hear shouting behind them. He looked back through the rear window and could see that the focus of Gryphon and his men had turned towards a newly arrived group of men. These were dressed quite differently and were attacking Gryphon’s men.

“What the hell…?” he said.

There appeared to be quite the pitched battle going on in the street behind them, but Chas wasn’t observing the speed limits and they were pulling away rapidly from the fight. This also had the additional serendipity of meaning that they weren’t being followed.

John groaned, and Rip turned his attention back to him. He put a hand to his neck, looking for a pulse. He found it, beating more quickly than it should, and it was clear that something was wrong. He couldn’t see any obvious wounds, so it would appear that this was a magical injury of some kind. Rip had no experience with those and no idea how to treat them.

“What did you do?” asked Rip. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

John shook his head. “Just need to rest…” he mumbled, and his eyes closed, his body going limp.

“John?” he asked, shaking his companion’s shoulder, but got no reply. He urgently, looked towards Chas for help. “He passed out, what should I do?”

Chas looked at Rip in the rear-view mirror. “The stupid son of a bitch over did it. Being unconscious is the best thing for him right now. Magic like that is costly. He needs sleep and then food. He might be out for a couple of hours, but at least he drained off your curse energy again. Let’s hope that’s enough to get you to the Mill House.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea who those other people were who turned up as we were making our escape?” asked Rip.

“No, that’s definitely more John’s area than mine,” said Chas. “I’m just here to stop him from getting himself killed.”

“Right,” said Rip, “congratulations on your success so far. I imagine it’s a somewhat thankless task,” and he settled back into the seat, trying prop John up into a position that looked a little more comfortable than his current one.

“You have no idea,” said Chas, ruefully. He thumbed on the radio again, and Rip took that as a sign that there would be no more conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

It took them a little while to get to their destination, which was down a dirt track in some woods. Rip had paid attention to where they were, but he still wasn’t entirely sure that he’d be able to locate it again.

“Give me a moment to undo the wards,” said Chas, heading for the door to the Mill House.

Rip got out of the cab and looked around. A rather battered pick-up truck was also parked up outside the building. The Mill House itself was a exactly what it said it was, complete with waterwheel on the side, and constructed of blocks of grey stone. Chas had gone to the wooden door, made some gestures, said some words that were in a language that Rip didn’t understand and finally unlocked it with a rather rusty looking key. He threw the door open and went inside. Rip knew better than to follow until he was told that it was safe.

Chas returned a moment later. He gestured at John. “Help me get him inside. Hopefully he’ll wake up soon.”

Rip just nodded and between the two of them they lifted John out of the cab and took him into the Mill House. The inside of the building reminded him a little of a cross between a museum and library. There were shelves of books, interspersed with rows of artefacts, some of which Rip thought he might recognise. There was also a fireplace, with a large leather sofa and a mirror over the mantlepiece. The mirror didn’t actually seem to show what was in the room, which was a little strange, meaning it probably wasn’t really a mirror at all.

They deposited John on the sofa just as he let out a groan, and seemed to be waking up.

“Hey, you back with us?” asked Chas.

“Tea, mate,” groaned John, and raised a hand to cover his eyes, “better make it with a whiskey chaser.”

Chas patted John on the shoulder and left the room. Rip assumed it was to find the tea and whiskey. He sat down on the chair opposite and regarded the other man.

“You gave me something of a scare,” said Rip.

John shrugged, and did his best to push himself up into more of a sitting position. “I channelled a bit too much of your curse’s energy. It tends to take it out of a bloke.”

“You telekinetically moved a car!” said Rip, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice.

“It looked like we were losing,” said John. “How are you doing?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

“I’ll be fine once I’ve had a cuppa and got some food in me. Chas is seeing to the first of those, and I expect he’ll see to the second soon enough,” said John. “Magic always has a price, and sometimes that price is my strength, sometimes it’s something a lot worse than that...” John shrugged, as if that was unimportant.

Rip was aware of at least some of John’s history, and he knew that “a lot worse” hardly covered it. John didn’t seem inclined to get any more upright, and he was lying back against the sofa cushions, still looking paler than he should.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said John.

“I’m doing fine, thank you,” said Rip. “We got here without further incident, although because of your fainting fit you missed the moment that yet another interested party decided to get involved in the fight.”

John just gave him a quizzical look, he also seemed unimpressed at Rip’s turn of phrase regarding his unconsciousness.

“We weren’t pursued by Gryphon and his lot because someone decided to attack him. We didn’t hang around long enough to find out who won,” said Rip.

“Now isn’t that a turn up for the books? I guess Gryphon wasn’t the only one after this thing,” said John, with a glance towards the ceiling, as he seemed to contemplate that.

“So it would seem,” said Rip, sinking backwards into the chair. He was tired and had been on the go for a while now. This was the first chance he’d had to properly stop and rest since this had begun.

Chas appeared with a tray which held three mugs, a teapot, milk and sugar. It was all looking quite domestic except for the bottle of whiskey and tumblers. He placed it down on the table in front of the couch. John made to sit up and Chas gave him a look.

“Stay down, you’re nowhere near up to sitting yet,” said the warlock’s friend.

“I’m fine,” said John, but Rip noted that he did stay where he was.

Chas poured tea into a mug, adding two sugars and a drop of milk, just enough that the tea could no longer be called black. Rip watched as the mug was then placed in easy reach of John’s hand without any further words being exchanged.

John reached out and lazily took the mug, blowing on the contents before gingerly sipping it. Rip would have believed the display of casualness entirely had it not been for the small tremors running through John’s hand. His new acquaintance was not back to full health yet.

“How do you take your tea?” asked Chas.

“You’re assuming I like tea,” said Rip.

“You can move straight to the whisky if you like,” said Chas, without missing a beat.

“Tea will be fine, thank you. Milk, no sugar,” said Rip, who did happen to like tea quite a lot.

Chas poured another mug, adding milk but no sugar this time and slid it across the table in Rip’s direction. Then he poured his own, black with no additions. He also poured out three generous measures of whiskey, distributing them around the table too. John downed his immediately, getting an annoyed look from Chas.

“I don’t know many Americans who drink tea,” observed Rip.

“John’s bad influence, and the fact that I spent a fair amount of time in the UK. I used to play bass in John’s band,” said Chas.

Rip raised an eyebrow, as he sipped his tea. “His band?”

“Yeah, Mucous Membrane. We were terrible, and mainly in it for the birds and booze,” said John. “Well, not just the birds in my case.”

Chas rolled his eyes, and John smirked back. “Yeah, yeah, it’s no secret that you play for both teams. Just leave some for the rest of us.”

“Renée would be very disappointed to hear you say that,” said John.

“She would, if we were talking at the moment,” replied Chas, with annoyance.

Rip saw no reason to comment on that. John Constantine’s sexual orientation was his own business, even if he was clearly very comfortable with it, and he doubted Chas wanted anyone to ask questions about his wife.

“What’s the plan then?” asked Chas.

“I need to put Rip here in an appropriate protective circle, and probably find a suitable lockbox for the Eye. So far, the protection spell is holding by the looks of it. At least it is since I drained off some more of the curse energy. So, we hopefully have a little time,” replied John.

“How much time?” asked Rip, taking a gulp of his tea. “How long is this going to take? I have responsibilities and I need to deal with Gryphon and whoever else was looking for the Eye.”

Apart from anything, he had a family to get home to, but he also needed to get back to protecting the timeline.

“I don’t know. I drained off more energy with the thing with the car, but we’re on borrowed time,” said John. “And you might as well ask how long a piece of string is when it comes to how long this is going to take. We need to hit the books before I’ll have any idea how to tackle this. I’ve never seen a curse quite like this one before, and it’s strong and nasty.”

Rip sipped his tea thoughtfully and with not a little disappointment. He’d suspected that there wouldn’t be a simple spell to fix this, but he’d hoped that John would at least know what to do.

“So, this could take a while,” said Rip.

John pushed himself up into more of a sitting position, and he only wobbled a little doing it. It seemed that he was feeling better.

“Yeah, so I’d better give you room in that protective circle to lie down. We’ll need some blankets for you and, erm, a bucket.”

“A bucket? Well, that’s just bloody fantastic!” Rip spat, sarcastically.

“It’s about the best we can do for now,” said John, finishing up his tea and picking up the bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a second measure.

“You do realise that I’ve been in better jail cells,” said Rip, with annoyance.

“At least this way you get to survive the curse,” said Chas.

“Yes, but I can’t live in a protective circle for the rest of my life,” said Rip.

“It’s okay, mate. It won’t come to that. This isn’t a hotel, and I don’t want you cluttering up the place for too long,” said John, indicating the room with his shot glass.

“My apologies for being such a burden to you,” said Rip, somewhat bitterly.

He put his tea down on the table, and somehow, he managed to knock it and spill the hot liquid over his hands and the table.

“Bollocks!”

John’s entire demeanour changed, as Chas headed for the kitchen to get a cloth.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” said John. “You’re not a clumsy sort normally, I take it.”

“Not normally,” said Rip.

“Just stay exactly where you are, don’t move, try to stand or do anything,” said John.

“Are you suggesting that I spilled tea because of the curse?” asked Rip.

“That’s why we had all those bloody red lights on the way out of town,” said John, putting down his second glass of whisky, undrunk. “And yes, you suddenly becoming a clumsy bugger is definitely the curse breaking through the protection spell again.”

John got to his feet, a little shakily, but he seemed to be better once he was moving. He grabbed a piece of chalk from the bookshelf and began sketching out a large circle on the floor boards. He followed that by drawing some strange looking symbols around the edge and then adding a much larger sigil in the centre of the entire thing. While John was doing that, Chas returned with a cloth to mop up the spilt tea. Then he moved away to find the blankets, leaving Rip to sit on the couch alone.

“There must be something that I can do…”

“There isn’t,” replied John, crouching to get a better angle on his work. “Anything you touch could kill you right now, or build into an unfortunate series of events that’ll also kill you. So, seriously, just sit still and think happy thoughts while I finish the sodding circle.”

Rip let out an annoyed huff of breath. He hated doing nothing. It went against his nature.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to give me some more information on how our next, or maybe it should be previous, meeting goes, went, whatever… How do you keep all this stuff straight?”

“I don’t really,” said Rip. “I concentrate on my own personal timeline. So, for me, we’ve met before and whilst I wouldn’t say that we’re friends, we parted on reasonable terms.”

“Yeah, I’ve only got your word for that,” said John. “How long have I got until we meet again?”

Rip shrugged. “I think it’s next year. I can’t give you many details. It might mean that it changes what happens and that would be bad for the timeline.”

John gave him a disappointed look. “That’s all I get then?”

“For the moment. You’ll just have to be patient,” replied Rip.

“Not my strong suit,” said John, adding the finishing touch to the centre of the circle. He looked over at Rip. “Okay, now we just need to get you into the circle.”

Rip made to get up, but John held out a hand. “No, don’t move yet. There’s a whole load of stuff that could potentially kill you between that couch and this circle. I’ll come and get you.”

Rip frowned. He honestly couldn’t see anything. He got to his feet and went to take a step to meet John, without really thinking what he was doing. He immediately found his feet tangled with each other or possibly the table leg, and then he was pitching forwards as he lost his balance. He crashed sideways into the table and Rip felt something sharp dig into his arm.

“What did I just say?” said John, with little sympathy in his voice.

Rip just groaned, and tried to right himself. John was now beside him and trying to help him up.

“And you’re bleeding. I told you to stay put for a reason. Come on, into the circle and then I’ll look at what you’ve done to yourself,” said John. “Chas! We’re going to need the first aid kit along with those blankets.”

“I’m fine,” said Rip, and then he looked down at his arm and realised that he had a large shard of a broken cup sticking out of it, as well as several large lacerations which possibly also had glass in them. He was bleeding quite a bit from the cuts, most of which were small, but there were quite a lot of them.

“Don’t be a sodding idiot,” said John.

“Oh bollocks,” murmured Rip, realising that this might be a little worse than just a few cuts.

John dragged him to his feet and then across the final few feet and into the circle. The warlock muttered a few words, and the symbols glowed blue as a crackle of light ran around the outside of the circle. John breathed a sigh of relief.

“Okay, this should keep you safe for a bit longer,” said John. “Although even this won’t hold forever against the curse on the Eye.”

Chas came dashing back into the room with the first aid kit. He handed it to John, just as Rip began to feel dizzy and decided that sitting down might be a good idea. John stopped him from landing more heavily than he intended, and was now looking at his arm with the practiced gaze of someone who had bandaged a lot of wounds in his time.

“There’s a couple of pieces of glass stuck in there along with part of a tea mug,” said John. He sat down beside Rip, and opened up the first aid box. “I think you ruined your coat too.”

“Gideon can fix it. It wouldn’t be the first time,” replied Rip.

John got out a pair of tweezers and began removing pieces of glass and porcelain from Rip’s arm. Blood was staining the coat around the edges of the cuts. He had been very unlucky with how he had fallen, but that was only to be expected. The Eye was trying to kill him.

“She’s good with a needle and thread, is she? Because I think you’ll need a miracle worker to save this,” said John.

“The technology on my timeship is rather more advanced than that,” said Rip, and sucked in a pained breath through his teeth, as John pulled a sliver of glass out of his arm.

“Just as well,” replied John. “I hope it’s got something for these cuts too. I’ll disinfect them and stitch up the worst of it, but you should have a proper doctor look at them. You don’t want them getting infected.”

He met Rip’s eyes. “Time for that big piece. This is going to bleed like a bastard and we’ll just have to hope it didn’t nick an artery or something.”

“I fear that the chances of me being at all lucky are rather slim at the moment,” said Rip.

“The circle provides you with some protection. If I’ve done it right, it’ll negate the effects of the Eye and you’ll just be back to your normal level of bad luck,” said John.

“Which was, admittedly, substantial to begin with,” replied Rip, with dour resignation.

John didn’t wait for him to become more pessimistic, and yanked out the large shard. He pushed a piece of gauze up against the wound, applying pressure in an attempt to slow the bleeding. It did seem to be working so far, and the deep wound was only bleeding normally for a cut of that type. Then John helped Rip to shrug off the coat and his shirt, meaning he could finally clean and dress the wounds properly.

Chas had found a broom and was busy sweeping up the broken glasses and mugs.

“That’s a bottle of scotch you owe me,” said John, threading a needle ready to stitch up the largest cut.

“If I get out of this alive then I’ll bring you two,” said Rip.

“Promises, promises,” replied John, as he stabbed Rip with the needle and rather expertly put two stitches into the wound.

“You’ve done this before,” said Rip, with a sharp intake of breath as the needle bit into his skin.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t always have Chas around to look out for me and tend to my wounds,” said John. “I got good at stitching myself up after the latest demon had taken a bite out of me.”

Rip felt strangely sad about the idea of John being alone after such things. The warlock didn’t seem bothered by his own words.

He tied the thread and cut it off. “There, done.”

Chas picked up the neck of the bottle of whiskey and dropped it into the plastic sack that he’d been using. There was a sad shake of his head as he did so. John thrust a blanket towards Rip, shut the first aid kit and then got to his feet. He seemed to have his energy back, and he moved towards the shelves on the opposite side of the room. He was looking for something, Rip could tell that by the way he scanned the shelves and ran a light finger along the spines of the various books. He pulled forwards a couple of tomes, putting them on the ledge at the bottom of the shelves, and then reached a hand into the dark hole that had been left by their removal. He rummaged around for a moment and then pulled his hand back out. It now held a rather ornate box, encrusted with crystals and bound in a silver metal, which was too far away to determine if it actually was real silver or just silver in colour.

John brought the box back to the circle, just as Rip had managed to pull the blanket around his shoulders. His skin had been getting goosebumps.

“Right, put the Eye in there. This should keep it safe and mean we can handle it without being cursed too.” John opened the box to reveal a dark, claret red velvet lining.

Rip didn’t need to be asked twice. He reached into his coat pocket, and drew out the Green Eye of the Little Yellow God. It was a large, lush green emerald set in a burnished, yellow gold eye shaped medallion, with a chain that seemed to have been affixed later than the rest of the piece had been made. Rip had been quite fascinated by the item until he had realised exactly what it was and what the fact that it was in his possession meant. Anyone who touched the Eye was immediately cursed.

Rip dropped the item into the box, the emerald glittering with snatches of borrowed light until John snapped the box shut. There weren’t any flashes of energy to indicate that the Eye had been neutralised or anything else, so Rip would just have to take John’s word for it, and obvious confidence in his own ability, that the box had worked.

“At least we can safely dispose of the thing now,” said John. “But we need to fix your problem before we can do that, just in case we still need the trinket to finish this somehow.”

John took the box and put it back on the shelf where it had come from. Then he took down two of the larger volumes from the shelf above. He handed one to Rip, who had moved the blankets provided to him so that he could sit on one and keep the other around his shoulders.

“You read Latin, right?”

“Of course,” Rip replied.

“Good, get stuck into that one then. Look for any mention of cursed objects that kill with bad luck, or the Eye itself, or the Little Yellow God.”

Rip nodded and opened the book. The paper was old and yellowed, and the cover was made of well worn leather, with strange symbols embossed in gold on its front and spine. Rip wasn’t at all sure what this book was, but it seemed to detail various uses of magic. He began to read, as John collapsed into a nearby chair with his own large volume, doing the same. He flicked through the pages rather more rapidly than Rip was doing, probably knowing the book well enough to skip through some of the sections.

Chas finished his cleaning and returned with a white shirt (undoubtedly one of John’s) and a couple of cushions for Rip. Rip briefly put down the book, giving Chas a nod of thanks for his kindness as he pulled the fresh shirt on. Chas returned to the kitchen and then came back with more mugs of tea. He knelt in front of him.

“You lost some blood, you’ll need that. I’ll make us some food,” said Chas, handing Rip the tea.

“Good, we can’t deal with curses on an empty stomach,” said John, not even looking up. He draped one leg over the arm of the chair.

Chas gave John an annoyed look, with the kind of exasperation that suggested he was a veteran of dealing with John’s demands.

“Does he always treat you this way?” asked Rip.

“This is one of his good days,” replied Chas, with a smirk in John’s direction.

“I’ll remember this when you next need someone to break you out of the morgue,” said John, his attention still on the page in front of him.

Rip had to parse that sentence twice. “What?” he asked, with a slight shake of his head.

“That is a story for another day,” said Chas “Drink your tea.”

Chas disappeared back towards the kitchen, and soon there were the sounds of pans being placed on hobs and things being chopped. Rip and John returned to their reading, turning pages occasionally and generally ignoring each other. Time ticked by and Rip found himself reading a passage about the Hindu gods of Nepal, which at least could have some relevance. Then the text moved into an entirely new area and he got to a part that appeared to be quite useful.

“I think I’ve got something,” he said. “If my Latin is correct, there is a village called Sankhu to the north of Kathmandu where there is a gold statue of a goddess who goes by Mhasu Khwa Maju, which translates as Yellow Faced Mother Goddess. She has emerald eyes that are put in place only for special festivals, and whilst not a one eyed god, she does have an additional third eye in the middle of her forehead. The third eye is considered to be an artefact of some considerable power although the author of this book was unable to discover more.”

John was suddenly paying attention. “Go on. That sounds like our statue.”

“It doesn’t mention a curse. It talks about some monks though, who were in service to the goddess and protected the statue.”

“Hmm,” said John, thoughtfully. “I knew that there were monks protecting the original statue that the eye came from, but now I’m wondering if they’ve been looking for the Eye all this time too. Perhaps they were the ones that jumped Gryphon and his lot.”

“The order was called the Banra. This book does seem to think that they were guards or maybe even warriors of some type. It calls them “fearsome protectors”. I suppose they could have survived through the centuries and still be around,” said Rip.

That did sound somewhat far-fetched though, like a Saturday morning adventure serial, and not reality, but then his own job sounded like an adventure serial, so who was he to judge?

“Perhaps they want to make the statue whole again?” he suggested.

“Your guess is as good as mine. The more pressing question is: do they know how to lift the curse? And if they know we’ve got the Eye…” John trailed off with a worried look towards his guest.

“They may just kill us and take it before we can ask them,” Rip finished.

“So, we need a plan and we need to know more about them. Anything else useful in there?” asked John.

Rip scanned a bit further ahead. “Not really. It seems to think that the idol of the Yellow Faced Mother Goddess is at its most powerful when the emeralds are in place. It doesn’t even describe what kind of magical powers it might have, just that it could be a source of energy. Then it moves on to talk about other magical idols.”

John let out a long sigh, and reached in his pocket for a cigarette. He fitted it between his lips, and proceeded to light it while he looked around to see where the nearest ashtray was. He pulled the glass dish on the side table closer so that he could tap the ash off the end of his smoke without stretching. Rip wrinkled his nose at the smell, and tried not to cough.

“Do you have to do that in here?”

“Helps me think,” replied John, taking a long drag and expelling the smoke through his nose.

A bell began to toll, sounding rather incongruous in the quiet of the Mill House. It reminded Rip of the cloister bell of a monastery that he’d once visited for a mission. John shut the book that he was reading with a bang and jumped to his feet, on high alert.

“Chas!” shouted John, stubbing out his cigarette with annoyance.

“I hear it,” replied the tall man, dashing back into the room.

“What is it?” asked Rip.

“Someone tripped the outer defences,” said John, grabbing his coat.

Rip closed his own book and made to get up.

“No, you stay where you are, sunshine,” said John. “The moment you step outside that circle this is all going to go to shit.”

“I think it might already have done that,” said Rip.

“Not as much as it will do if I have a cursed idiot running around while I try to defend us,” replied John. “That gem is powerful enough that it might just start affecting the rest of us too.”

“I can’t stand here and do nothing,” spat Rip, with a cutting motion of his hand.

“You can, and you will, otherwise I can’t say any of us will get out of this alive,” said John. “Now, would you let me work?”

There was the sound of a loud crash from upstairs, and the direction of the front door of the Mill House. Both Chas and John flinched, and their eyes went wide with surprise.

“I thought you said that was impossible,” said Chas, glancing upwards and then back at John.

“I said that it was _nearly_ impossible. Only something powerful can get through those wards,” said John.

The door flew off its hinges and landed across the room.

“Bollocks!” said John, just as Rip chimed in with “bloody hell!”

Rip pulled out his pistol, extending his arm and pointing the gun at the intruders as they entered. He ducked as a number of knives were thrown in their direction and opened fire in reply. Chas and John exchanged a glance, from where they’d thrown themselves. Several men and women began to enter the room athletically, not bothering to take the stairs, although they hesitated to approach closer. Rip hit one square in the chest, stunning him to the floor.

The attackers put wooden pipes to their mouths and blew hard. A flurry of darts rent the air around them, and John quickly began to mumble something, his hand outstretched towards the approaching people. The air seemed to move away from John in a bubble. It ruffled his clothes and those of both Rip and Chas, who had moved to stand beside John. The tiny darts that were now in flight seemed to be deflected by an invisible barrier. Rip assumed that’s what John’s mumbled words had done. He wondered if his own shots would penetrate it from the inside towards the invaders, and since there wasn’t time to ask, he decided to cease fire.

“We need cover,” said John, to Chas. “The barrier won’t hold for long if they know what they’re doing.”

Chas nodded and between the two of them, they quickly manhandled one of the large leather sofas into position so that Rip could crouch behind it. It was just in time as a second volley followed the first and this one penetrated the barrier. Rip felt one of the darts fly past his head as he ducked down rapidly, with John and Chas beside him.

Chas was giving John a look.

“But it should have held longer than that!” exclaimed John, with indignance.

Rip risked a look over the top of the sofa and let off another round of laser shots. He thought he hit a second and maybe a third, but he couldn’t look out for long enough to get a good idea of how he was doing.

“Yes, well, unless you have a back door or a better plan, then this situation is fast becoming untenable,” snapped Rip, crossly.

He would have felt badly about losing his temper, but he’d had a bad day and this unexpected development was not improving his outlook.

John just rolled his eyes. “I guess there’s one other option.”

Rip then watched somewhat dumbfounded as John Constantine got to his feet, in what could only be interpreted as a bid for suicide.


	3. Chapter 3

For a moment Rip was too shocked to stop the exorcist, who was apparently unworried that he might be hit by another wave of darts. He was presenting a perfect target, and of course that wasn’t enough, he then had to draw more attention to the fact that he was standing there waiting to be shot.

“Oi!” John shouted, loudly. “Don’t you think you’ve shot up the place enough, lads? If you want the Eye then you can have it. It’s one less cursed object for me to worry about, and quite frankly I’m running out of suitably warded boxes to keep all the bloody cursed trinkets in that I’ve collected over the years. Although, I’ll want something in return of course.”

Miraculously, John was not struck down by a poison dart.

“Give us the Eye and you will not be harmed,” said a woman with hair the colour of coal, apparently the leader of this group. Her English was perfect, and only slightly accented.

Rip would have guessed that she was South Asian, although he would have struggled to pinpoint the exact region. Her dark hair was tied back in an intricate plait, and she had a gold choker at her neck, a gold rope that twisted around with a flat circle hanging from it. The circle was embossed with symbols and Rip recognised the letters as what he thought was Devanagari, although his experience of the writing system was limited. He noticed that all their attackers were wearing the same choker type necklaces, regardless of gender, and each one had the embossed circle attached. Clearly this meant something.

Otherwise they were dressed in sensible combat gear, perhaps with more flashes of red than was properly practical.

“You’ve got some nerve, coming into my house and dictating terms,” replied John. “I’ve already said that it isn’t free.”

“And I have said that we will spare your lives, which is a huge concession to the thieves who took the Eye,” said the woman.

“My friend here got cursed by your sodding Eye of the Yellow God. If you want it then you have to break the curse.”

“Your friend should not have taken the Eye,” said the woman, imperiously.

“I was recovering it!” said Rip, tersely, as he scrambled to his feet. It was against his better judgement but if Constantine was going to be an idiot then he might as well join him. “I intended to return it to its rightful owner, or at the very least keep it safe. I would have done both those things if I hadn’t suddenly turned into the unluckiest man on the planet!”

He holstered his revolver, seeing as no one appeared to be shooting at each other for the moment.

“I am not the thief,” Rip continued. “I was looking for that person for unrelated reasons. It was coincidence that she happened to be carrying the Eye.”

“Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?” asked Chas, angrily as he too got to his feet again. “Who are you people?”

“I’d think that’s obvious, mate,” said John. “They’re the bloody Banra. Aren’t you, love?”

The woman inclined her head in tacit agreement. “We have protected the statue of the Little Yellow God for centuries. That is until it was plundered by the British and our temple ransacked. He killed the priests that protected the Eye and desecrated a sacred idol.”

She eyed the two men with a bitter animosity, the likes of which Rip had not seen in some time. However, he understood why. This was a cultural artefact, one which neither he nor Constantine could hope to place the correct spiritual value upon for her. To make matters worse, he spoke with an accent that was probably very similar to the one that the original thief spoke with.

“We can avoid any further bloodshed,” said Rip, trying to be both sincere and understanding in his tone. “As Mr Constantine said, we don’t want the eye, and I would very much like to return it to its rightful owners. But I need to know that this will also lift the curse.”

“If we return the Eye to its rightful place in the statue then the curse will be broken,” said the leader of the Banra.

“I don’t have time to take the Eye to Nepal. The curse would have killed me already if it weren’t for Mr Constantine’s protective magic,” said Rip.

“You got a name, love?” asked John.

“I am called Kopisha,” she replied. “Who are you?”

“I’m John Constantine. That’s my mate, Chas Chandler, and the guy with the curse riding him is Rip Hunter,” said John, as he indicated each of them with an offhand wave. “Rip’s right, it’s a long journey back to Kathmandu. How were you planning to get the Eye home without the curse killing all of you.”

“The Little Yellow God is always with the Banra,” replied Kopisha. “Or at least part of it is.”

Kopisha beckoned one of the Banra forwards from where they had been stood towards the rear of the raiding party. He was a young man, probably still in his teens and he had a leather backpack. She said something to him in a language that Rip didn’t understand, but it sounded as if it might be one of the many Indian dialects, or more likely Nepali, and he nodded. He took the backpack off and removed what appeared to be a weathered stone from it. It was square, marked with an identical symbol to the one that the members of the Banra wore around their necks and it had a seam that ran across it. The young man took the stone, murmured some words in the same language that Kopisha had spoken to him in, and twisted it. It fell open in his hands with a glow of green light. Inside was a silk interior and a cavity that was exactly the right shape to hold the Eye.

“This is a stone from the temple of the Little Yellow God. If we place the Eye within it then the curse will be broken,” said Kopisha. “The Eye will have come home.”

“Well, finally we’re getting somewhere,” said John. He confidently strode across the room to where he had hidden the Eye only a few hours earlier.

There was the sound of the bell tolling just as John removed the books that hid the box with the Eye inside it. He turned back towards the room, as the warriors of the Banra suddenly became alert once again.

“What now?” asked John.

“Gryphon,” said Rip, with certainty.

“You summoned them?” said Kopisha, her voice tight with accusation.

“No,” said Rip, quickly. “They’re artefact hunters, people who will hand the Eye over to whoever will pay the most for its power. I was trying to fix the problems that one of their number had caused when I caught the thief and found that she had stolen the Eye.”

“Why should I believe that you’re not with them?”

“You were there when they attacked our car,” said Rip, desperately. “And we were willing to hand over the Eye. Why would we do that if we were with them?”

“Maybe we should be asking you how you found us, because I’d bet good money that you led them straight to us. You didn’t bloody check for a tail, did you?” said John, crossly removing the box from its hiding place.

“We located the Eye using sympathetic magic,” said Kopisha. “The temple stone and the Eye are linked. What is a tail in this context?”

“I’ll take that to mean that I’m right. Someone followed you,” said John, crossing the distance between them.

He opened the silver and crystal encrusted box that he’d stored the Eye in and Kopisha’s eyes widened. She waved forward the young man and Kopisha transferred the Eye from one box to the other. As soon as the emerald touched the interior of the stone a golden light emanated from it, pulsing out towards Rip. He was unprepared for the force behind the light and he found himself pushed back so that he had to struggle to stay standing. A stream as bright as the sun wound its way around him in a spiralling circle and was met by a green glow that seemed to ooze from his body. It was like the gold light was sucking a poison from him, and he felt himself being roughly buffeted this way and that, then lifted off his feet.

He had nothing to grab hold of to prevent it, and neither John nor Chas were close enough to reach him before he sailed through the air. He landed hard on his back, winded and outside the circle that Constantine had specified that he should not leave. The light retreated back towards the emerald, like water draining away down a plughole, it disappeared into the Eye.

He groaned, and John was next to him a moment later, offering him a hand up and actually looking a little concerned.

“Anything broken?” asked John, sounding less than solicitous.

Rip accepted the hand. “Hopefully only my streak of bad luck. I assume that the curse is now removed?”

“Yes,” said Kopisha. “The power has returned to the Eye.” She shut the stone box with a snap.

There was the sound of gunfire from outside, easily heard through the broken door. Rip looked between John and Kopisha, as he took out his revolver and quickly checked the settings.

“Gryphon and his associates cannot be allowed to get the Eye. I intend to protect it. Are you both with me?”

John gave him a mildly amused look, probably at his formality with their enemy bearing down on them, but he nodded. Kopisha took out a wicked looking knife. Rip, who prided himself in knowing his weapons, identified it as a kukri which was a traditional Nepali weapon.

“We will protect the Eye to the last of us,” said Kopisha.

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” said Rip.

Kopisha inclined her head and she led the Banra back up the stairs in an orderly, but also rather menacing fashion. Rip could hear the battle heating up as the rest of the Banra joined the fight, dashing in with an abandon that Rip couldn’t bring himself to emulate.

“It had bloody better not,” murmured John, apparently sharing Rip’s desire to get out of this in one piece. He strode back to his bookshelf and retrieved a rather large scimitar from its resting place.

“I’m sure I don’t want to know what that is,” said Rip, with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

John positively grinned. “This is the Lion’s Claw, it was wielded by one of Ghengis Khan’s men who had a side line in monster slaying. It’s got a couple of special moves. Useful piece of kit when you’ve got to deal with a bunch of pricks shooting up the place.”

Rip nodded once, the beginning of a twinkle in his eye. “Whatever you think will work. After you, Mr Constantine.”

John didn’t wait for further discussion. Twirling the sword in his hand, he headed towards the stairs, dashing up the steps, and was closely followed by Chas who seemed to have produced a shotgun from nowhere. Rip was only a couple of steps behind them, his gun clasped in his hand ready to take on all comers.

It was apparent that a fierce fight was already in progress even before they made it out of the Mill House. The Banra did not use guns, but they were efficient hand to hand combat practitioners and the darts from their blow guns were utterly lethal. Rip could see flashes of light in the dusk of the evening as Gryphon’s men employed both magic and laser weapons to attack. The artefact collectors were arrayed amongst the trees, taking advantage of the cover to keep themselves protected. However, several members of the Banra had already traversed the distance between the Mill House and the woods, and they were now fighting with Gryphon’s group.

Rip moved down to crouch behind a low wall and fired at his enemy. He could see Gryphon, tall and blond, deflecting darts and attackers with a spell much like the one that John had used to stop the Banra’s darts earlier. His own shots were simply being deflected off the force field and bouncing away harmlessly. There was no way that he could deal with Gryphon if this continued.

“Bollocks! Bloody buggering hell!” he swore.

It was then that he heard Constantine intoning words in a language that he couldn’t place. He turned his head to see the sword in the exorcist’s hand glow blue, and then John slammed it into the ground with all the force that he could manage. An electric line of sparking blue energy spat out from the blade and shattered the protection magic that surrounded Gryphon and his people, throwing them backwards.

Rip looked up at Kopisha. “I believe that would be our cue.”

Kopisha shouted an order and then the Banra and Rip were racing toward their opponents, who were now very much on the back foot. Rip fired twice more, taking down a couple of the foot soldiers, but then they were in too close quarters for his gun to be much use, so he holstered his weapon and relied on his fists. He enjoyed smashing a fist into the face of one of the people who had chased him earlier, laying them out with a single punch.

He heard a cry of “bastard!” to his right and realised that John had also followed them. He was facing off against Gryphon, and the sword now lay on the ground beside his feet. It looked like Gryphon had knocked it out of his hand, but he was also holding a serrated blade and Rip could see a red stain spreading across John’s lower abdomen. The blond man aimed a punch at his assailant, missed and went down to his knees with a painful groan.

Rip didn’t hesitate. Constantine could not die here, and even if he had not regarded the man as a friend, he had a duty to protect the time line. He rapidly pulled his gun again and shot Gryphon squarely in the chest. The man was thrown to the ground, a red wound on his sternum. He did not move.

“Bollocks!” said Rip.

He had wanted to question Gryphon, and he supposed that he still might be able to, but right now he was more concerned about John. Even from where he was stood the wound looked bad, and John had collapsed sideways to lie on the ground, blood dotting the dead leaves that covered the ground.

Rip fell to his knees beside his injured friend.

“The bastard stabbed me before I even saw the knife!” said John, indignantly, giving Rip the impression that he was less worried about the wound than the fact that he hadn’t seen it coming. “Didn’t have a chance to get out a word to cast anything useful.”

Rip pulled a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket and pushed John’s hands away from the wound so that he could use the cloth to apply pressure.

John groaned with pain. “Gerroff, you bastard!” he protested, trying to roll away from Rip.

“John, you have to stay still,” said Rip. “I need to stop the bleeding.”

Blood was already seeping into the fibres and staining it crimson. He looked around desperately for help, and finally caught sight of Chas nearby, smacking another one of Gryphon’s party in the face and into oblivion.

“Mr Chandler!” he shouted, but it seemed stupid to stick to formalities at a time like this. “Chas!”

The tall American turned around and saw Rip and John, his expression changing to one of concern immediately as he realised that John was hurt and down.

“John!” Chas said, dropping down beside them. He pulled out a phone. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

Rip shook his head. “There isn’t time.”

The rag under his hand was already soaked with John’s blood and the man himself was turning pale. More worryingly, he was also becoming quiet. Rip freed up a hand and tapped his communicator, about to do something that he’d probably regret and which would definitely get him in trouble with the Time Council.

“Gideon, bring the Waverider to my co-ordinates. Maintain the cloak at all times, and get med bay ready for a patient,” said Rip to his ship’s AI. The curse was broken, there was nothing to stop him from calling in his ship now.

“I am on my way, Captain,” replied Gideon.

“ETA?”

“Nine minutes,” replied Gideon.

Rip let out a sigh.

“You can land to the west at the crossroads. There should be room for the Waverider there,” said Rip.

John was breathing hard and his eyes were unfocused, blinking rapidly. He looked like he would pass out at any moment.

“What’s a Waverider?” he asked, his voice cracking with the effort of speaking.

“My ship,” said Rip. “It has a fully stocked medical bay. You’re going to be fine.”

“Hurts like buggery…” John said, and his eyes fell shut.

“John?” asked Chas, urgently.

“We need to get him to the road,” said Rip. “That’s where the Waverider will be landing.”

“He needs a hospital…” began Chas.

“He’s bleeding out,” said Rip, tersely. “By the time the ambulance gets here, he’ll be dead. The Waverider is the only hope he has. I need you to trust me. I only have his best interests at heart.”

Chas met his eyes, looking as if he couldn’t decide what Rip’s game was here, but then he nodded, apparently deciding that Rip wasn’t trying to pull a fast one. He gently put his arms under John and lifted him up as Rip continued to press the bloodied hanky to the wound.

“How long until your ship gets here?” Chas asked, as they moved the unconscious man towards the road. They were walking quickly, but anything more might jar the wound and make it worse.

 “Gideon said nine minutes, so any moment now,” replied Rip, hoping that his sense of time hadn’t deserted him due to the adrenaline of the fight and the situation under his hands.

Around them the Banra was mopping up the last of Gryphon’s ill-fated attempt to take the Eye. They had to pick their way through the trees and avoid the last of the fighting, but they eventually made it to where they needed to be.

There was the familiar sound of the ticking of the Waverider’s engine just as they reached the road, and he heard the ship land just in front of them. He couldn’t see her because she had remained cloaked the entire time, but then the ramp descended and he could finally work out where she was. John was limp and pale in Chas’s arms, even though Rip was continuing to maintain pressure on the wound.

“Come on,” he said to Chas, and they carried John on board.

Chas seemed entirely focused on getting John where he needed to be and he did a good job of ignoring the fact that he was now on board a spaceship. Rip directed him to the med bay.

“Put him on the couch,” he said, “then you need to take over from me and apply pressure while I get the systems up and running.”

Chas quite gently placed the unconscious blond man on the couch. Rip had been slightly surprised that Chas could be so careful, he was taller than both John and Rip, a big man. Rip moved away to let Chas continue to apply pressure and then grabbed the medical cuff which he fastened around John’s wrist.

“Gideon, scan Mr Constantine and initiate treatment,” said Rip, as he examined the readings that the medical cuff was already giving him. Gideon’s scan would produce more detailed information.

Blue lights flickered over the patient.

“Please remove Mr Constantine’s shirt,” said Gideon. “It will be easier to treat the wound without it, and you may step back Mr Chandler. I am providing pain medication, clotting factors, and a blood transfusion.”

Rip rapidly removed John’s tie and started on the buttons of his shirt, exposing the bleeding wound in his abdomen. It was to the lower right and experience told Rip that the knife had probably sliced into the intestines, giving John a high risk of peritonitis if this wasn’t treated rapidly and with some appropriate antibiotics. Rip and Chas both stood back as Gideon had asked.

“Sealing the wound,” said Gideon.

Rip watched as the wound appeared to close itself magically under one of Gideon’s beams of blue light. The readings on the medical monitors were already improving. He looked down to find that his hands were covered in John’s blood. He let out a shocked breath at the amount of blood that had covered them and the cuffs of his shirt, lent to him by John. Chas was looking just as shocked as Rip felt. He made himself move over to the sink in the corner of the room and wash his hands, then he took a hand towel, dampened it and gave it to Chas.

Chas looked almost surprised at the offering, but he took it and wiped down his own hands.

“Is he going to be okay?” Chas asked, looking very worried.

Rip nodded, still a little shaken. “He should be fine. Gideon, what’s the official prognosis?”

“Mr Constantine will make a full recovery given a few days rest. It may be several hours until he regains consciousness. His recovery will be hastened by his abstinence from cigarettes and alcohol. I am attempting to neutralise the affects of nicotine on the retardation of wound healing, and make allowances for his previous magical injuries.”

Rip frowned. “Previous injuries?”

“My scans show that Mr Constantine’s body had been placed under considerable strain recently and sustained internal injuries normally associated with the practice of magic,” replied Gideon, in a tone that suggested that this was entirely routine.

“Probably from when he overdid it when they attacked us in the taxi,” said Chas, as if he too thought it was just normal.

Rip gave a shake of his head. Things like that shouldn’t just be the way it was. He already knew how dangerous Constantine’s profession was, but it hadn’t really been made clear to him that even just using magic was risky. At least the man was in good hands now – Gideon would heal him to best of her ability.

“Maybe you should let your ship take a look at your injuries too,” said Chas. “I’ll get John cleaned up a bit. There’s nothing worse than waking up encrusted with blood.”

Rip raised an eyebrow. Chas sounded like he had experience.

“Long story,” said Chas, correctly interpreted Rip’s look. “And not one I’m going to tell today.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rip. “This is my fault. I brought them here, and this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t sought his help.”

Chas shrugged. “If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else. John couldn’t stay out of trouble even if he really wanted to.”

“Captain, if you are injured then you should allow me to treat your wounds,” said Gideon.

“I believe Mr Constantine already treated them sufficiently well,” said Rip. “But I suppose a second look wouldn’t hurt.”

He sat down on the free couch, the furthest from the door of the two. He attached the cuff around his wrist and let Gideon perform her scans without complaint. He felt something being transfused through the cuff and into his bloodstream.

“What are you giving me?” he asked, more out of curiosity than for any other reason. He trusted Gideon and she would never give him either sedatives or painkillers without his permission. Time ship Captains couldn’t always accept those when they had a mission to complete.

“I have detected some pathogens in the wounds that you sustained. I am administering antibiotics to prevent infection,” replied Gideon. “I would also suggest that you rest. You are exhibiting many of the signs of fatigue.”

“Noted, Gideon, but I have a couple of loose ends to tie up before I can rest,” said Rip, glancing across at John, who was being tended to quite solicitously by Chas. “Mr Chandler, if you would like to rest, Gideon can guide you to a guest room or the galley if you need food or drink.”

“It’s okay, I’d like to stay with John for now,” said Chas.

“Of course. You’re welcome to remain here for as long as you need to. Gideon, are you done with me for now?” asked Rip.

“Yes, Captain, but please get some sleep at your earliest opportunity,” said Gideon.

“I will do my best,” said Rip, with an incline of his head towards the ceiling. He sat up and removed the cuff from his wrist. “Take care of Mr Constantine. I shouldn’t be long. I just need a word with Kopisha.”

Rip left the med bay, making a detour to his quarters to change his shirt and pull on his leather jacket. He existed the Waverider to find Kopisha and her people poking at the dead and injured amongst Gryphon’s men.

“Well, this is something of a mess,” said Rip, as he stepped up beside the leader of the Banra. “I’m entirely sure that Mr Constantine does not want to attract law enforcement to his home.”

“We will deal with them,” said Kopisha. “We will burn the dead tonight.”

“My employers would be happy to take custody of Gryphon,” said Rip.

“He needs medical attention, but you are welcome to him,” said Kopisha, waving forwards two of her warriors. They held Gryphon between them and he did look somewhat the worse for wear. A large burn could be seen on his chest from where Rip had shot him earlier. He was unconscious.

“I have something to collect from the Mill House, but then I will take him off your hands,” said Rip, with a polite smile. “I assume that otherwise our business here is concluded and you will escort the Eye back to its rightful home.”

Kopisha gave him a half bow. “Indeed. You have my apologies for misjudging you. If our paths ever cross again then we will owe you a debt.”

“Hopefully they never will, but I appreciate the offer,” replied Rip.

He left them to deal with the other prisoners and the dead, while he headed back into the Mill House to retrieve an important item. The old stone building was going to require a few repairs to make it serviceable again, but Chas seemed like he’d probably be good at DIY. John perhaps less so. Rip spotted what he was looking for, where it had been left earlier. He moved down the spiral stairs and towards the magic circle that John had placed him in for safety.

He picked up the brown duster with a grin. It had a few tears in the sleeve, maybe the odd blood stain, but Gideon should be able to deal with those and he’d never know that it had been damaged. He shrugged it on over his jacket and headed back out of the Mill House, propping up the door against the frame as he left. He had a prisoner to collect and he didn’t like to leave Chas and John alone on the Waverider too long. Trouble had a habit of following the exorcist, even when he was unconscious.

***

John awoke to an unfamiliar room, one that didn’t look like any medical facility that he’d ever been in, and he immediately went into a status of high alert, despite his grogginess. He did not like the feeling of not knowing what was going on. He had a memory of a sharp pain in his stomach, and then Rip saying something about his ship before everything had faded out. He frowned and began to take stock of his surroundings. He heard the sound of someone snoring and looked to his left to see Chas, asleep in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair and leaning against the wall.

John relaxed a little. He was beginning to get an idea of where he might be, even if it was thoroughly fantastical that Rip had been telling the truth. This had to be the medical bay on the Waverider.

He didn’t feel up to much, but he did want to know what had happened. He was missing his shirt, tie and coat, but he didn’t feel cold. He also had a very strange metal bracelet around his wrist that seemed to be attached to a tube that had liquid inside it.

“Chas,” he said, in what was supposed to have been a shout but didn’t make it much past a croak. “Chas!” he said again, with a little more success.

Chas didn’t even stir.

“Yeah, you get your shut eye,” mumbled John. “We’re just on a sodding _space ship_!”

“I’d let him sleep, he’s been keeping an eye on you since we brought you on board,” said another familiar voice, and John turned his head towards the entrance to see Rip leaning in the doorway. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I had one over the eight,” said John, running a hand through his hair.

He tried to sit up, and found that his limbs would obey him only under protest. He supposed that was better than not at all. He looked down at his stomach where the stab wound had been. There was a very small red line where he’d expected to see stitches and a scar. Rip seemed to understand why he was looking at it.

“Gideon healed your wound. Hopefully you should be back to your usual irascible self once you’re properly rested,” said Rip, noting the look. The Time Master pushed himself off the door jamb and into the room, his coat flowing around his ankles. “For now, I’d suggest you lie down again.”

John groaned and gave up his attempt to get up, deciding to follow advice for once. He still felt pretty awful and from the look that Rip was giving him, he wasn’t doing well at pretending otherwise.

“So, do you want to fill me in on the bit that I missed?” he asked.

Rip went to a jug of water that sat on the side counter and poured a glass that he brought over to John.

“There isn’t much more to tell,” said Rip, as he handed John the water. “Sip it slowly.”

“But there is something?” prompted John, taking a mouthful of the water.

“Gryphon wasn’t dead, so he’s in the brig and I’ll take him back to the Time Masters for trial,” said Rip. “Kopisha said her farewells and will be taking the Eye back to Nepal where it will be reunited with the statue it came from. Hopefully that should be an end to it.”

“Yeah, for you,” said John. “I’m still due to meet you again.”

“Indeed you are, and like you were, I will be sceptical about what you say. Please try not hold it against my younger self. I really was quite new to the job at that point. And don’t forget to give me your business card.”

John nodded. “It’s not like I _can_ forget, is it? Because we know I didn’t.”

“Time can be changed, John. Making discreet alterations to the timeline is my job, but I have to have faith that this was how it was always meant to happen,” said Rip.

“If you say so, mate,” said John. He reached a hand down and felt in his pocket, looking for his pack of cigarettes. “Time isn’t my area of expertise. I think I’ll stick to magic. Much less complicated.”

Rip raised his eyebrows, but the small upturn at the corner of his lips told John that the comment had been taken in the spirit it was intended. John realised that his cigarettes were not in his trouser pockets and frowned.

“Pass me my coat, would you? I need a smoke,” said John.

“There is no smoking on board the Waverider,” said Gideon. “It is bad for your health.”

“I know, love,” replied John. “But I doubt I’ll be alive long enough for the smoking to kill me.”

He almost missed the slight wince that crossed Rip’s features, but it was there and then gone. John wanted to ask what that was about, but then Rip was speaking again.

“I wouldn’t upset Gideon,” said Rip. “She’s very good at finding ways to get people to do what she needs them to.”

“Gideon?” asked John. “Your partner?”

“Yes, she is that, but she’s also the AI that runs this ship,” said Rip. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Fail to sleep and probably starve yourself,” replied Gideon.

“Yes, thank you, Gideon!” said Rip, with irritation.

John chuckled. “She sounds like Chas.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, Mr Constantine,” said Gideon.

“You do that, love,” said John, with a broadening grin.

Rip rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage her.”

Chas’s head fell forwards in his sleep and he awoke himself with a start and a sharp intake of breath.

“Ah, the sleeper awakens,” said John, as Chas looked around himself tiredly.

“Er, yeah,” replied Chas, taking a moment to shake off his nap. He stretched out his long limbs and then got to his feet. “You look better.”

“I’m feeling it too,” said John, smiling.

“How long was I asleep for?” asked Chas.

“Several hours,” said Rip. “I expect you’re both hungry. Perhaps some food is in order.”

Chas nodded. “I never did get to finish making dinner.”

“Maybe after some food I’ll feel up to getting out of here,” said John, and Rip gave him an understanding look.

“Of course, I’m afraid that the med bay isn’t terribly comfortable for long stays. You’d definitely be better completing the rest you need in your own bed,” said Rip.

“That’s settled then,” said John.

“Mr Chandler, perhaps you could give me a hand,” said Rip.

“Sure,” replied Chas, and he gave John an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

Chas and Rip left to go to the ship’s galley, while John snoozed again. He still felt like he’d been burning the candle at both ends, but it was a lot better than he’d felt when he’d lain on the ground, bleeding out from a stab wound. He’d definitely take the improvement.

Eating did seem to help, and John felt much more like himself afterwards. He’d never been keen on medical establishments of any kind, even futuristic ones and he was champing at the bit to get out of the med bay. Chas helped him to get up and Rip provided him with a clean shirt. He’d also somehow managed to get the blood off his trench coat.

Then Rip held out a bottle of amber liquid towards John.

“I believe I owe you a bottle of whiskey,” said Rip, handing John the item in question.

“I’m fairly sure that you said two,” said John.

“Well, perhaps I can offer you two gentlemen a drink before you leave,” suggested Rip. “As a thank you for saving my life.”

“I think you repaid the favour already,” said John, with an incline of his head towards the recently vacated couch. “But I’m not one to turn down a drink.”

Rip led them to the bridge of his ship, and into a room that he referred to as the parlour. It was furnished with leather armchairs and antique wood, rather at odds with the technology and metal in the rest of the ship. John kind of liked it.

Rip poured them glasses of amber rum, apparently the spirit that happened to be in the decanter, and they sat and talked. There was no threat to be dealt with and the rising darkness could wait for a few hours. John allowed himself to kick back and drink Rip’s, frankly excellent, alcohol, while they swapped stories. John would never have said it to him, but Rip had quite a few good ones.

It was some considerable time later that they ran out of booze and anecdotes, and Chas declared that it was home time. Rip saw them off the ship, hardly giving any indication that he’d had several glasses of liquor.

“They sure made a mess of the place,” said Chas, as he surveyed the damage to the Mill House.

“As long as we can fix the door, everything else can wait,” said John. “I’ll restore the wards tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you know Zed’s back tomorrow? What the hell is she going to make of this?” asked Chas, with dismay.

“Oh you know, the usual,” said John, with a smile. He finally was able to take out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, even as Rip looked at him disapprovingly.

Chas wandered off to get a closer look at the damage.

“So, I get to meet you again. What about after that, are you going to be back around here any time soon? I could always use another pair of hands in the fight against the rising darkness,” said John.

Rip looked a little awkward. “I don’t know. This was the first time that you’ve met me, and you will again, but I can’t say what my personal future holds.” He handed John a small metal device about the size of pack of cards. “If you need me, then call the Waverider and I will come. One of the benefits of time travel is that I am never late.”

John looked at the item that he’d just been given, and realised that this was a token of their nascent friendship. He nodded and pocketed it.

“Till we meet again then,” he said.

“Till we meet again, Mr Constantine,” replied Rip. He turned around and was gone in a swish of coat tails and the sound of hissing hydraulics as the ship’s hatch closed.

John lit his cigarette and watched the time ship ascend into the atmosphere.


	4. Epilogue

Epilogue

***

It had been a long and difficult case. A leech demon had decided to embed itself into a group that were smuggling immigrants into America without going through the usual channels. John despaired at the country he currently called home at times, not that his own was much better. People fleeing oppression were vulnerable to exploitation and demons loved that, it made things so much easier for them. He’d tracked the leech demon to a group of warehouses where shipping crates were being brought in, and now he just had to end it.

He was casing out the warehouses when he saw a familiar figure walking across the tarmac outside one of the warehouses. He wasn’t wearing his coat, and instead had a leather jacket on, but it was still definitely him.

“Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here,” said John, a grin breaking across his lips.

He looked around for the Time Master’s ship as he lit a cigarette and took a long drag. The Waverider was probably cloaked, which was why he couldn’t see it. He leaned back against the edge of the building.

Rip stopped and turned.

“I’m sorry,” he said, on his guard, “do I know you?”

John raised his eyebrows. Rip had been right, this man didn’t know him, so he must be a younger version.

“I would say so after that business with the Eye of the Yellow God, but today I’m hunting a Leech Demon. I wouldn’t have thought that was in your pay grade.”

Rip sighed, sounding a little tired. “I’m terribly sorry, but you’ll have to refresh my memory. Who are you?”

“John Constantine, exorcist, demonologist and master of the dark arts.”

He smirked, pulled out a card and handed it to Rip. It had the same words written on it in a serif font, and a phone number. He did keep meaning to get new ones printed, but they were what they were for now and it was like the one Rip had shown him several months previously.

“And you’re Captain Rip Hunter, arsehole, killjoy, and Time Master. Although you do know how to hold your drink, I’ll give you that.”

“I don’t drink,” said Rip, apparently without really thinking. “If you know who I am, then you know that it’s quite possible that although you’ve met me, I haven’t met you yet. So, if you could refrain from giving me information about my own future that I’m not supposed to have, I would be most grateful, Mr Constantine.” He looked down at the business card and then put it in his pocket.

Constantine shrugged. “Whatever you like, mate. Now, are you going to give me a hand with this Leech Demon, or shall we just leave the illegal immigrants locked in that shipping container over there to their fate?” John waved a hand in the general direction of the shipping container in question.

Rip frowned and seemed to consider his words for a moment.

He spoke again. “Gideon, I’ve met a Mr Constantine and I’ll be assisting him with a small problem.”

John clapped his hands together. “Right, we’re going to need a cat… follow me.”

This was going to be fun.


End file.
